


These Shallow Pauses

by Tartha



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, M/M, thoughts on suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tartha/pseuds/Tartha
Summary: Sometimes our friends know us better than we know ourselves. Metaphysical [angsty] introspection in 666 words. (Holy Water Request)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	These Shallow Pauses

Crowley resented that sleep was an impossibility.  
  
Like a loose spool, his thoughts tangled and spun out. He reclined on sleet-black sheets and watched the ceiling. Part of him idly considered getting a mattress for it. But that would alert any unsuspecting visitor that finding Crowley sleeping, wide-eyed, on the ceiling, was an unnerving possibility. He wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. He’d enjoy startling Aziraphale.  
  
His mind flinched away from thoughts of the angel, but the ache reached up and drug him from lighter musings. He never could ignore Aziraphale.  
  
It hurt. It hurt, and he couldn’t abide by it, because it wasn’t the angel’s refusal which had hurt. It was the familiar and well-worn edges of a self-directed fury.   
  
He should have known the angel would assume the worst: he always does at first. There’s always a moment where he gives Crowley the benefit of the doubt: maybe Crowley _ isn’t _ nice, maybe Crowley _ is _ properly demonic, maybe _ this time _ Crowley’s done something to earn being one of the unforgiven. It hurts almost as much as it pleases him, because Aziraphale _ knows _ Crowley, and his first reaction is always suspicion (as it should be).  
  
Afterall, Crowley is--in fact--a demon. He reminds Aziraphale of this fact regularly, because the stupid angel seems hell-bent on forgetting. But Aziraphale isn’t stupid, and you’re not supposed to trust demons, no matter how well you know them.   
  
But no, what hurt wasn’t any of that--because Aziraphale had skipped right past his usual angelicly mandated doubt, and jumped heart-first into the truth of it. Crowley hadn’t even been aware: _ of course _ he wanted the water for defense, he was playing a dangerous game, and he needed to be able to defend himself.

He suppressed a growl, flexed his body’s fingers, and stretched his wings in the aether--expanding his awareness through the fifth dimension while splitting his attention between the physical and the metaphysical.   
  
He never had any _ intention _ of ending himself, but--as the huffy angel’s words looped in his memory--he was forced to acknowledge that, perhaps, the thought hadn’t been as far from his mind as it… As it _ should _ have been. And he _ loathed _ that.   
  
He was open, wrenched in half where he should be whole (an old hurt that would always be fresh). He had said _ why why why _ and been punished (because he had known, but he hadn’t _ known_).   
  
Carefully, meticulously, he dragged his focus away from the raw expanse of his greater self. Wanting that hurt to end was a personal shame far greater than the hurt itself. And, of course, Aziraphale had known. He always did.  
  
Crowley folded in on himself, and crammed all of his Self into a smaller human shape. He had known that he wanted holy water, but he had not _ known_. Seeing the why in sharp relief: “_obviously _” …It was too much.   
  
Because he had _ needed _ it, understood it was paramount to his continued existence--he let out a gasping choke of a laugh. Before his gasp could turn into a sob, he curled in on himself, squeezed his physical shape into a tight ball, and shuddered through a breath.  
  
He’d prove his angel wrong. He’d let the interminable march of damned souls pass him by without letting them catch against the bleeding edges of his Fall.  
  
Slowly, he pulled his attention back into the physical and listened to the empty spaces of his flat. It would take time, but he was stubborn. He was stubborn enough that he had made himself what he was, and he’d continue along that path. Between the Earth, and his existence, he had already put far too much effort and pain into the entity that he was.  
  
He’d throw himself into the Earth, and if that didn’t prove suitably distracting, he’d sleep until it was. When he could stand it, he’d find Aziraphale; a thrice-blessed blunt-force to the brain: better at thwarting than he’d ever know.  
  
Crowley breathed in, and slowly--over decades and decades--let the tension unspool.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously considered tagging this OOC... I imagine that Crowley is actually fairly healthy considering his history and, err, "job." But we all have hard moments, and painful truths.
> 
> And in the end, there are a lot of folks who write about Aziraphale apologizing for accusing Crowley of asking for a suicide pill, and--well--that never quite read true to me. You are supposed to confront someone point-blank when you think they're planning on killing themselves, and these two are so wrapped up in each other that the request probably hurt and surprised Aziraphale just as much as his rebuttal hurt Crowley.


End file.
